


Roots

by Louffox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Beholding, Caretaker Martin, Desk Sex, Do Not Archive, Isolation, Leitner as sex pollen, M/M, Needy Jon, Sort Of, no beta we die like men, weirdly consentual for fuck or die tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 04:52:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15766989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/pseuds/Louffox
Summary: The Lonely must not have him. The Archivist must be held tight, the bond must stay, and any good Archival Assistant will do whatever it takes to pull the Archivist back from the brink.AKA Jon reads a book, and the book reads him.





	Roots

**Author's Note:**

> good golly miss molly this has taken an ETERNITY to get written down. I'm worried it's not got my usual flow, as I wrote it over the course of a few weeks, off and on, and it felt broken up to write something like that. I'm used to just keyboard smashing, vomiting out a piece in a single sitting. Also other disclaimer, I wrote probably 90% of this on my phone.

“Leitners? I thought you hated those,” the grad student who's name Jon had already forgotten said, snapping her gum. Jon flinched at the loud sound.

 

“You thought I- we've never even met.”

 

“Yeah, but like… everyone in the archives hates those. And Martin goes off about them sometimes. And he talks about you a lot, and I heard that dead guy was this Leitner. Did you guys ever figure out who killed him?”

 

“It wasn't me,” Jon said angrily. “And- where did you hear the dead guy was Leitner?” He immediately resolved to have a talk with Martin. The archives weren't a soap opera to gossip about. “Actually, never mind. I just- I need access to any Leitners we have stored here.”

 

“I dunno, I just heard it. Police, maybe? So, Leitner collection. Sure, sure. Just a sec, I gotta log you in, check all the permissions boxes… you've signed a waiver within the last 6 months?”

 

“Yes.” He waited impatiently as she flipped through a clipboard and clicked a lot on the computer. He flinched when she snapped her gum again, and pretended not to notice the small grin.

 

“Alright, you're legal. Good luck,” she said, passing him a key. He could've had Elias give him the key, of course, but he wanted to limit his favors and interaction with the bureaucratic voyeur. He'd taken a job and somehow tied his very being to a power/entity beyond his reality that was created by and fed on fear, lord knows what would happen if he took a key.

 

He marched past her, angry at himself for flinching one last time as she snapped her gum, and he heard a faint snicker behind him as he headed down the artefact storage corridors.

 

The Leitner rooms were a long ways down the hall, and separated by a few empty closets or rooms containing the most innocent of artefacts, as there was a general fear of interaction between the books and the objects. Hell, they even worried about the books interacting with the other books. Once, Jon might’ve dismissed it as something Elias was certainly aware of and in control of. Then he’d spent a month as a hostage by a circus monster hoard gone masseurs, and learned Elias was not one to be counted on. Jon didn’t know which was worse- if Elias had just let him remain captured in an attempt to grow him up a bit, or if he’d let him remain captured because he was incapable of helping in any capacity. Either way, he now regarded Elias as basically useless, and would only rely on himself. So he was absolutely not going to assume that Elias was aware of all the books and in control of what was going on. He was going to assume he was on his own.

 

Except he also had Martin. And Basira, sometimes. Melanie, if their interests aligned, and same with Tim. 

 

The key got stuck in the lock for the Leitner room he was trying to access (there were four, to help with separation and prevention of interaction) and he jimmied it for several moments, swearing at it, before it finally let him in. He hit the lightswitch and looked around.

 

It was scarcely larger than a janitorial closet, and much emptier. It only contained a handful of items, including two small chests on the floor, stacked on top of each other, a large box of what looked like lead, several loose volumes sitting dustily on shelves with chains binding them closed and to the shelf, and a few in simple plastic baggies. There was also one floating in a disgusting looking fishtank, and one that appeared to be glued or otherwise stuck to the ceiling, despite having several small metal weights tied to it, now dangling like an odd windchime.

 

Jon pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and tugged them on, before pulling out a notebook, a pen, and his recorder. He turned the recorder on.

 

“I’m checking all the Leitners. Gerard said there were fourteen powers. And these books are connected to them. I want to establish a list of each book, and each connected power.” He took the clipboard from where it hung on the back of the door, and scanned the contents list. “I could’ve sent someone else, but… I’ll admit, I haven’t actually seen many of these, just seen them on lists that said they were here. And I’m curious to see them. I’m not sure if succumbing to that curiosity is a sign that the Eye is tightening it’s hold each day, or a result of the dissolution of the mystery surrounding them. I’ve always believed that the known is never as scary as the unknown. When they were mysterious powerful books from the library of the elusive Leitner, they were terrifying. Now that I know they’re odd books only collected and held by Leitner, and carry power that’s fairly well defined by their masters, I feel a lot less afraid. Part of the mystery is gone, so they’re a bit less intimidating. I can assign some basic rules to them, and can glean further understanding of them.

 

“Now, let’s begin. I have put on gloves and I will read as little as possible of each book, beginning with the artefact notes about the title, author, where and how it was acquired, and the presumed function of them, and try to make an association with a power without actually interacting with the book itself.”

 

He picked through the books, matching each to the title and description best he could, and trying to choose a power for each. Some were clear- the one on the ceiling was Vast, the one in the fishtank was Desolation, two of the plastic baggie books were Filth, another was Hive, a last Lonely. The chests, he did not open, but scanned the tags on them. Another Desolation, and another a Buried.

 

“‘101 Interesting Facts about Spiders’, clearly that’s Web. Unless it’s Hive… no, after a bit of reading, it could only be Web. Noted. This one… it appears to be a flipbook, but I’m not going to remove it from the bag... And especially not flip it. The note indicates that it sprayed gristle and blood into the eyes of the last person who flipped it, who then developed spontaneous self-cannibalism, which led to a post-mortem diagnosis of Lesch-Nyhan syndrome, despite the victim being female, and this syndrome being carried on the X-chromosome and nearly unheard of in females. It could be Slaughter, but the self-cannibalization is more likely attributed to Meat. And… that’s the last of them.

 

“Alright, this room was fairly straightforward. I mean, I suppose someone spontaneously developing prosopagnosia, aphasia, and deafness could be Spiral, but my gut tells me that's more isolating than maddening. Though I am very tempted to dig into this a bit, because how did she submit a statement with such severe complications? To be considered later, I suppose, now onto room… hm. I was going to do room one, then two, three, four, but… I've been dreading room four so badly, I want to just get it over with and be done with it. Room four is… unknowns. Books with Leitner tags that we haven't figured out how it affects a person yet. They would be written off as innocuous, if not for the Leitner plate. Some are books that were sent here anonymously, some were taken post mortem and the cause couldn't be found, some were just found in shops or libraries and acquired without any clear ill effects. And, as I mentioned before… I am far more afraid of the unknown. So room four it is. Let's get the beast out of the way.”

 

It was surprisingly not awful. The first two he examined rang with that aching deja-vu familiarity and dizziness, and he knew they were both Spiral. He marked them as such and noted on the clipboard for them to be moved to one of the other rooms. The next was frustratingly plain. It was a small green paperback with a normal looking teen fiction cover, a boy with a sword in one hand and what looked to be an eel in the other, and it was titled Thunder Gods. It bore the Leitner mark, but after reading a few pages, Jon could discern no effects at all. He spent a good twenty minutes with it, before realizing he was going to get nowhere if he spent more than that with every unknown book, and reluctantly shelved it. It was almost physically painful to give up on the mystery of it.

 

The next one’s cover had a scratchy poorly drawn image of a marionette on the cover, and it took only a quick peek inside to decide it was more Web than Stranger, and he was happy to file it away with the others to be moved.

 

“There’s another brown one here, hardcover, probably 300 pages, smells of… soil… I’m going to note it hesitantly as Buried and not mess with it too much. This is a fairly risky business, poking about in Leitners, so I’m trying to reduce contact as much as possible. I’d suspected that, being in the institute, a place belonging to Beholding, I’m a bit shielded from the worst of these, and I’m starting to think that’s true. I’ve just opened half a dozen Leitners in a row and haven’t died or had any unspeakably awful thing happen yet, which is fairly rare indeed. I wonder if Beholding has any direct power over books themselves- as books are instruments of information and storytelling, either carrying information or experiences or fiction, Beholding might have enough sway over them to keep me safe…. Hmm. I also suspect,” Jon said, realizing and scowling, “that Elias knows this as well, or else he would’ve stopped me from doing this. Thank you for withholding that and just sitting about, letting me flail in the dark and figure these things out on my own, it’s very professional and helpful of you,” he deadpanned, rolling his eyes and hoping the know it all git was watching.

 

“Next book… ‘So You Want To Be A Wizard’. Paperback, four hundred and four pages. Let’s see… “ He began reading it silently, sitting cross legged on the floor, feeling pangs of nostalgia and joy, like when he would hide in new bookstores between the back shelves and try to read as much of a book as he could before either a shop worker or his grandmother found him, and took the expensive book away, until he could return to resume reading.

 

Somehow, he finished the entire book. He blinked owlishly at the room, and then checked his phone. Three hours had passed.

 

“Oh. Hm. Well… that might be a Spiral? Or… or Isolation? Honestly, it just reads like a great unique teen novel…maybe the author- wait a second. This- there isn’t a Leitner seal on this! Someone must’ve just left this here!” He ground his palms in his eyes. “For god’s s- that was three hours of wasted time! Dammit all... Well. I suppose I’ll refile that one too, shall I? And now, looking at the checklist of what’s in here, I see it’s not listed. Damn.

 

“Next book- and yes, there’s the seal. God, I’m an idiot… Alright. This one looks very old, small, looks more like a journal than anything else. Bound with a soft material, not leather, maybe some kind of recycled cardboard or cloth? The title is Roots, written in elegant script, embossed in gold vines. There is no listed author. The first page is an image of seven trees, side by side, drawn with a mixture of geometric black lines and watercolor. They’re shown in a sort of cross section of earth, so you can see roots below the grass, tangling together, connecting them all. There are no words.

 

“The next page is the same image, but there appears to be a fault or a cliff between the farthest left tree and the others. The next page is again the same, but with a well between the next tree and the others.” He flipped through the rest of the pages quickly, seeing the same seven trees, but each time another addition to separate the roots, until none of the trees were in contact. The last page showed them all wilted and dead looking with heavy snow and ice hanging from their leafless branches. There were no words on any of the pages.

 

“Right then. Hive, perhaps? Unity is a definite theme… it could also be Buried, with the interaction of the ground, but I’m not so sure. Isolation could also be a potential power source of this book, as the trees are separated… Hmm. I’ll take some notes and rethink this one later. 

 

“On to the next book, I suppose…  Oh, that might be Slaughter- my glove is suddenly covered in small cuts on contact. Glad I’m wearing them and not just grabbing it with my bare skin, I imagine my skin would be sliced up quite badly. I’m going to just nudge this one down into the box and mark for it to not be touched with anything less than thick leather gloves. Though it is a pain to turn pages with these. Still, I’ll opt for clumsy instead of bleeding. The title, notably, is Knives for Dummies. Don’t know why that one is still in the mystery room.

 

“I think I ought to call it a day, revisit this tomorrow. I didn’t bring a spare set of gloves, and I just don’t feel comfortable working with these without protection of some sort. I’ll resume this tomorrow, or whenever I get a new pair of gloves. End recording,” he said, clicking the recorder off and removing his ruined gloves. He gathered up his notebook and pens, locked up behind himself, and headed back to his office in the archives.

 

It was late in the day by this point, and he felt dejected by how little he’d gotten done. Just gone and spent three hours reading a book that had nothing to do with work, and then gotten his gloves mangled. He tossed his gloves in the bin and took a moment to lay his head down on his desk, taking some slow breaths. The Unknowing was still coming. Elias was still a murdering control freak. Tim was a whole new person, in the worst possible way, and it was certainly his fault. Melanie and Basira had both been dragged into this hell, and Daisy was now killing at Elias’s command. He was owned by an all seeing spy entity.

 

His chest felt implosive, like with each exhale, he was collapsing inside just a little more. It was all a mess.

 

A tap at the door made him flinch up, and blink owlishly at Martin. His brow furrowed, a little irritated at having his indulgent moment of self-loathing interrupted, but he felt also relieved to have someone around. The painful useless feeling had left him uncharacteristically craving social interaction.

 

“Sorry, am I, er, I didn’t mean to… to wake you?” Martin stammered. Jon waved a hand to invite him past the doorway and rolled his shoulders, stretching his back and neck.

 

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he said dourly. “Just… taking a moment to reflect.”

 

“Oh, right. Sorry for interrupting that, then. I just wanted to come check on you- how did reading the Leitners go?”

 

“Not exactly a glowing success, I’m afraid. I spent over three hours reading this one blasted book that apparently wasn’t even a Leitner, either someone misfiled it or someone has been taking breaks in the Leitner rooms. Stupid of me. Then I couldn’t figure out a few of them, and one tore my gloves to bits,” he grumbled.

 

“Did you hurt your neck?” Martin asked.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Your- your neck.” Jon blinked. He hadn’t realized he’d been rubbing it and rolling his shoulders.

 

“I mean- just sore, I suppose. A lot of standing and reading, sitting on the floor and reading. I have terrible posture, when I’m not paying attention or sitting at a desk.”

 

“Would you like a warm compress? I have a few rice bags in my desk that I like to lay over my shoulders after doing a statement, just pop them in the microwave for a few seconds to get them warm. I saw it on pinterest,” he suggested. Jon opened his mouth to refuse.

 

“That sounds really nice, Martin, sure.” He couldn’t help it- it did sound very nice, and he had a faint chill, goosebumps making the hairs on his arms stand up, from the empty drafty artefact storage rooms. Martin was up in a moment, reassuring him he would be back in a jiff.

 

He rubbed at the back of his neck and fought against that sense of emptiness again. Sure to his word, Martin wasn’t gone long.

 

“Here. There’s a bit of jasmine in them too, is that alright?” he asked, coming around Jon’s neck to drape the beanbag over his shoulders and around the back of his neck. It was warm, and he leaned into it, making an involuntary contented hum.

 

“No, that’s wonderful. Thank you, Martin,” he said, voice hoarsely earnest, letting his eyes fall shut. Just his presence chased away the despairing pain. He found he didn’t want him to leave. “So- er.. How- how have you been coming along with statements? They’ve been rough?” he asked. Certainly not stalling him. Definitely not. Just… being a good department head, that was all. Martin remained behind him, fiddling with the beanbag, hands fluttering shyly.

 

“I… yeah, I’m doing fine. They’re… they really take it out of you. It’s not even that they’re scary or disturbing- well, they are, but that doesn’t get to me as much as it used to, cause I’ve seen worse now, but also, it’s more dreadful in a different way, cause I know they’re- well, they’re real. I guess I knew before, but I didn’t think- It’s different, having seen it. I knew they were real all along, but the same way that you know Canada is real. You see it in pictures and stuff and maps show it, but you don’t know the feel of the snow and wind. I knew they were real, but I didn't  _ feel _ they were real. You know?”

 

“Mmmm.”

 

“And they are exhausting, that’s for sure. I slept nearly twenty hours after my first. I’m getting acclimated, though, and there are some that are easier. I read this one about a cinematographer and this crazy director that made a spider film, and it went so very wrong, and that didn’t hit me too hard, so I thought I had built a tolerance- then the next one I read, about a girl doing a report on centipedes, and she had this Leitner about centipedes, and… I was really knackered after that one, so I guess I didn’t have as much tolerance as I thought. I was talking to Melanie about it the other day…”

 

Jon let Martin’s words wash over him, still not opening his eyes. He reclined into his touch, feeling warm and drowsy and contented, like being curled up with mulled wine and blankets in front of a fire. But not alone. Martin’s voice, usually grating and too high for his ears, was comforting. He felt hazy and satisfied.

 

At some point, Martin’s fingers had begun to card through the short hair at the base of his neck. He leaned into it, drinking in the attention. He would’ve thought of the term ‘touch-starved’, had he been thinking at all. His mind was blissfully quiet and empty, happy to be filled with sensation.

 

He turned slightly so Martin’s touch dragged over the shell of his ear, and turned more to mouth at the tips of his fingers. He had stopped talking, but that was fine, he could still feel him there, he wasn’t alone. Martin was with him. Martin wouldn’t leave him.

 

He nipped at a fingertip and flicked his tongue over it, drawing that bit of taste into his mouth, swallowing it into his body, salt and skin and warmth and  _ presence _ -

 

Martin’s hands were suddenly gone, and he gasped as the pain rushed in, filling the void left behind.

 

“I’m sorry, I- uh, I didn’t- I’m not sure-,” Martin was stammering, voice high with tension, but Jon ignored it, reaching out to catch his hand. The pain went away immediately.

 

_ What the hell? _

 

Martin had stopped talking, eyes wide. Jon tried to think through the fog. Where had the fog come from? Why was everything so distant and strange? He didn’t feel well. He didn’t feel right. The air was cold and felt tremulous, like a dry winter draft. He gripped Martin’s hand tighter, trying to anchor himself. What was going on?

 

“Something’s… wrong,” he managed, starting to shake. The pain was coming back, lapping at the edges of him like boiling oceans. The tide was coming in. He felt he would be washed away.

 

Martin laid his hand on his forehead, and the pain receded again. When he drew his hand back, it returned in a smashing wave, and Jon cried out. He grabbed Martin’s other hand, holding them both in his. It helped, a little, but he could feel it still lingering, preparing for another wave.

 

“What do we do? Do- should I get Elias, or- or- or, what do you need? What do I do?” Martin was saying frantically, crouching in front of Jon, eyes wide and worried.

 

“Don’t get bloody Elias,” Jon said through gritted teeth. He didn’t need him, he could figure this out.

 

“But he might know, he se-,”

 

“No. I think…” he groaned softly, heat and pain pulling at his stomach, his lungs, his being. He let go of Martin’s hands, just for an instant, enough to confirm that the pain blasted through him at the absence, and grabbed him again.

 

“It’s something to do with Isolation. I- I think. I read a book… separation.” The image of the trees, roots cut and out of reach, flashed through his mind. “It hurts to not be touched. I think I need to maintain contact. But it’s getting worse,” he said quickly through gritted teeth.

 

Martin, bless him, immediately stepped closer, so their knees touched as well. Jon sighed as the slowly mounting pain ebbed again.

 

“Alright then. I can- I can help,” he said, stammering for a second before his voice went firm and confident. This wasn't something Jon was good at, but it was Martin’s bread and butter: caretaking. “Touch, is it? C’mon, let’s sit on the futon, maximize contact or whatever. We’ll move quick, just hold onto my hands, okay?”

 

Jon could only nod, and they stood up, quickly shuffling over to the small couch against the wall. Martin sat down quickly and pulled Jon down to sit beside him, so their legs touched from hip to ankle.

 

“I don’t want to- you’re usually one for your space, and I don’t want to intrude on that. Please tell me if anything I do isn’t okay,” Martin said softly, squeezing Jon’s hands. He nodded again.

 

“Yes, of course. But I just- I… I don’t mind. You’re… safe.” This was clearly not the time, nor the mental state, to be making grand confessions and engaging in heart-to-hearts, but he needed to get the words out before the tide rose again. “I trust you, Martin, I wouldn’t want anyone else to be helping with this. You’re just… you’re a safe person. I feel- I…. I know I don’t really do much by way of… affection. But I care about you, even if I don’t always show it. I’m just not- this isn’t really my forte. I trust you, and I won’t be upset about this later, I won’t blame you, I promise,” he reassured him, words starting to rush together as the pain began to rise again. He pressed his leg more firmly against his, but it wasn’t working, so he pulled his arm over his shoulders, knocking the beanbag down, forgotten.

 

“I- I… thanks, Jon. I… well, you’re not really in any state to be making promises, but I’m not going to let Isolation or whatever take you. I’m going to do what it takes to keep you here, because I know that even if it’s not really me you want, it’s this world, and not the world of Isolation and all that.” He pulled him close to his body, and Jon leaned in, resting his ear on his shoulder. “Is this okay?”

 

“Yes. It’s… the pain is gone, yes. Thank you, Martin.”

 

It was good.

 

For a bit.

 

It seemed to be working well, this sort of side-by-side half hug, half cuddle. The pain wasn’t getting any worse, he was starting to relax.

 

And then it shot through him, fire and ice, and he jumped with a gasp.

 

_ Make it stop _ .

 

He leaned over and pressed himself to Martin.

 

Against Martin.

 

He reached for him, with his hands and fingers and legs and mouth.

 

_ Please make it stop. _

 

When the pain fog lifted, he was straddling Martin’s lap, chest pressed flush against his, mouth working against his to pry him open and taste him. He needed this. He needed him. He was so empty, aching,  _ anything, please Martin, help me, make it go away, bring me back, keep me here. I’m empty. Please. _

 

Martin was kissing him back, hot wet mouthfuls of each other, air and heat and connection. He was outrunning that empty clawing agony, Martin was keeping him covered, keeping him filled.

 

He squeezed his thighs around Martin’s hips, bucking desperately against him. Martin turned his face away from the kiss to gasp open-mouthed into his neck, jerking his body into Jon, hard and reassuring and present,  _ he was here, he was here, he wasn’t going anywhere. Hold me down, Martin, don’t let me go. _

 

The gasp turned into a nip, making Jon groan low in his chest, the rumble carrying through both of them. Jon’s fingers flew to Martin’s sweater, yanking on it in a way that would surely stretch it. Once, Jon might’ve fussed over that. Once, Jon might’ve showed the restraint to not hump into the archival assistant like a stud in heat. Once, Jon might’ve blushed at the very idea of kissing. Once, Jon might’ve believed that pawing through Leitners would lead to a terrible situation, but he was finding this remarkably not-terrible.

 

He got Martin’s sweater off, and the shirt beneath came with it. Martin had fumbled enough buttons for Jon to struggle out of his own shirt forcefully, so he could arch into the warmth and security of Martin.

 

_ Empty, so empty. Please. _

 

Trousers were next, and he took charge of that, fumbling with buttons and zippers as Martin slid them sideways until Jon was over him and they were lying down, pressed together from toe to shoulder. He dragged his mouth, teeth, lips, tongue across Jon’s chest, nipping and biting. Marking him. Anchoring him.

 

He shoved his trousers down best as he could, and began shoving at Martin’s, but hands caught his wrists and froze him for a second. There was still contact, enough to keep his mind clear of the fog ache, but it was only just held at bay.

 

“I just- I can’t just- Jon, I don’t want to do anything without your consent. This- it’s- you’re under the influence of a book, and I don’t- I can’t hurt you. I want to help you, but I don’t want- I don’t know what’s the right thing here. I know you need… this, to counter the Isolation, but it’s going to cause more- it’s making more problems to fix this one,” Martin said, struggling with the words. His face was open and concerned and frustrated, and Jon laid his body down over his firmly, trying to get enough touch to focus through the need-fog. The isolation, the lack of active hungry wanting contact, it already ate at him. He forced two deep, hard breaths to calm himself.

 

“I know. It’s all- it’s a mess, and I don’t know about… anything. But I do know you’d never hurt me, Martin. Not physically, not emotionally. And that’s why- I’m glad it’s you here. I said before, and I mean it- look at me,” he said quickly, as Martin’s eyes dropped shyly. He obediently met Jon’s eyes, and he tried to express the clear-headedness that he clung to, the certainty that this was the best thing to do. “I’m here. Not just the book. Me. And I’m okay with this. I’m very okay with this. I’m consenting to this, and I’m trusting you with me. I know you’re not taking advantage of me, and I need you to know that you’re not taking advantage of me either. And I- I need to ask you too. Am I... taking advantage of you? Because if you’re not okay with this, if you don’t want- if you feel like you’re being used, if you don’t want to, I can- it’s not like the book is forcing me to- to fuck you specifically. It’s just- I need- anyone, a person, an anchor, something to chase away the emptiness,” he said, starting to grit his teeth as the absence and weightless void of lonely encroached again, “but I want it to be you.”

 

Martin bit his lip, and Jon’s arms had small muscle tremors as he struggled not to lean in and bite it for him. His hips twitched, and he winced, but fought it. He needed- he needed… He needed Martin to either agree or not. He wouldn’t do this without his verbal consent, he was a monster, but not like that, never like that.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m- you’re not taking advantage. Trust me,” he said with a breathless little laugh. “This is- I’m a very,  _ very _ willing participant, and not just with the fucking, but with the- with you.”

 

Jon groaned with relief and leaned down to finally take that fat, red, worried lip in his teeth, claiming and being claimed.

 

He went back to tugging at his Martin’s trousers, and if he were feeling more himself, he would've laughed at how Martin deftly used his toes to push Jon’s trousers and pants the rest of the way off. They worked together and managed to get Martin’s off, as the archival assistant grumbled something about needing extra arms into Jon’s neck.

 

The first brush of hands, just the backs of his fingers and the soft sharpness of his nails, over Jon's hips caused a rather interesting effect. The pain recoiled back, giving him a moment of crystal clarity, before it snapped back in, a haze of heat and damp and  _ need. _ But this time, the surge and ebb wasn't quite so unpleasant. The wave of pleasure-pain-pleasure-pain was delicious and satiating and he needed  _ more _ .

 

He wriggled his hips with a little more determination than desperation this time, getting their cocks lined up. He barely took a second to take in the details of Martin, naked and bared beneath him. Pale, supple skin, freckles and blush. Damp with sweat, the exertion spent on anchoring Jon, keeping him from drifting off. The Archivist took note of the translucent trail of hair from his navel to pubis, leading to a thick but trimmed mound of hair. A scar from an appendectomy, a few faint lavender stretch marks wrapping around to his low back, a constellation of moles down his ribs on his left. Jon didn’t absorb the details- it was all just Martin. His safety, his security, his pleasure. He’d started licking and biting his way down his chest, keeping their bodies close, starting to slowly rock against him. It was good, it was so, so,  _ so _ good, but he needed more.

 

“I need you inside me,” he breathed into Martin’s ear, breath puffing against his own ear with every small testing thrust of their cocks together.

 

Martin suddenly swore, and Jon blinked up at him, squeezing his knees around his waist a little.

 

“I don’t have… erm. We need… stuff. Lube, condom,” he said quickly. Jon swore as well. He barely dared take his mouth off Martin, lest he fall off the earth and into that empty solitary nothing pulling at his insides, making him hollow and needing. So how on earth was he to go chasing down lube and a condom?

 

_ Help me. I need this. What do I do? _

 

The Archivist fed him the answers, and he knew he would need to feed it later. He pulled Martin up, shuffling and rotating so they were sort of upright spooning. The full length of their bodies touching sent a shiver of no-pain-pleasure down Jon’s frame, but it was mostly the full length of Martin’s cock, searing hot and solid with want ( _ want for Jon, need for Jon, anchor, ties, connecting, tethering _ ) against the aching seam of his ass that made his breath stutter. Martin followed suit easily, wrapping his arms around Jon and taking odd little steps to his desk, each tug of motion making them both a little more frantic, a little more turned up. He yanked open the top drawer and fumbled for what he needed, hands trembling and fluttering with small shocks of desire. He pulled out the small packet of lube, and knew that it had been dropped in there by Tim once, very long ago, on a dare. 

 

The Archivist let him know they didn't need a condom as both he and Martin were safe. It also let him know that he needed to hurry and anchor himself before the Isolation had him. There was a low simmering anger and hunger beneath the information it beheld to him. Jon was marked for the Eye and the Lonely could bugger off. It was possessive and terrifying, objectifying him in a cruel dismissal, but also weirdly hot. Jon belonged to it. It would fight with him and for him.

 

The anger hunger made him groan, wanton and empty, and more than ready to be anchored. He couldn't make it back to the futon. He needed this  _ now. _

 

He snaked an arm up and behind him and wrapped his grip around the back of Martin’s head, knotting his fingers in his hair and pulling him over his shoulder for a searing kiss. Martin whimpered into his mouth, and Jon devoured it, hungry for more, taking whatever Martin could give him. He ground back against him, and his hips jerked in response, thrusting his hot prick against his crack harder. He wasn't even inside him yet and Jon felt stretched and taut. 

 

Jon struggled to squeeze out plenty of the lube onto his trembling fingers, and reached back behind himself, opting to lean right over his own desk rather than shuffle back to the futon.  _ Now. Fill me now,  _ the hunger demanded, encouraging Jon to kick back against those empty dark waves of pain. He dragged his hand over his ass, giving his own cheek a rough squeeze, before batting Martin just out of the way enough to-

 

He let out a long low noise as he pushed his middle finger into himself. He was clenching and trembling against the tide of emptiness, and it was hard. It burned and he struggled.

 

“I can't- I- I'm not- Martin,  _ please,” _ he groaned, growling the word through his teeth as he struggled against himself. He felt the packet taken from his hand, and a few shaking frustrated seconds later, his own hand was being brushed away, and then- then- he was-

 

Pleasure, raw and untempered, ripped through him. He keened and arched as it made it's slow way down his limbs. It was- had he just come? But no, he was still hard, and needier than even before. It was just- a reward, or a promise, or a bond gone, or a wall fallen.

 

_ Roots, grasping and reaching, a single thread finally connecting. Found, holding, frail and uncertain, but more would follow. The bond must hold. _

 

At some point, Martin had slipped a second finger inside him, and Jon was so lost in sensation that he could only lean on his elbows on the desk and wordlessly vocalize his need. He'd never been so turned on and desperate in his life. It wasn’t enough. He needed more, he needed it all.

 

“That's enough, I need- more, I need more, I need you inside me. Martin, Martin,  _ Ma-artin, _ please fill me,” he rasped, mindless of anything but the need.

 

“You're ready? You sure?” Martin said back, his voice far to soothing and calm.

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” he said, arching his back, chasing the contact. The touch on his skin was less important than touches under his smknz the goosebumps were gone but the hollow feeling was severe.

 

“Alright, good, let me- let me just…” The stutter in his breathing was a gift to witness, telling Jon exactly the scene, but he turned to watch with his own eyes as Martin spread lube over his cock, squeezing and pulling at himself languidly, lips parted slightly as he touched himself. A sharp tremor wracked Jon's spine.  _ Need. Mine. _

 

Martin seemed to sense the almost panicked need state Jon was in, and quickly lined himself up. His breath huffed over the nape of Jon's neck, wet and humid, as he rocked up the cleft of his ass a few times, getting them a little accustomed to the heat of each other.

 

And then-

then-

Splitting, stretching. Heat, familiar and personal and intimate. A weight inside him. Hot, heavy, pressing down and pressing tight and within. Anchoring.

 

Another almost-orgasm rumbled through him and he keened low again. He felt the roots strengthen, the bond grip tight, go steely and strong. Supple and flexible but unyielding. Taut. Held. Bound.

 

The Lonely would not have him.

 

Because Martin would. The Eye would. They were both there for Jon to be anchored to. It was a peculiar thing, to be loved and held by two in one body fucking him over his own desk, one a young man who lied on his resume so he could support his mum, the other an extradimensional fear entity.

 

His master had him, a tight inescapable caress. He was Beholding and Martin was Beholding, each other, bearing witness from both parties, experiencing from all angles. The Eye looked upon itself, through Jon, through Martin, and worshipped itself with two bodies it wore.

 

Martin fucked into him like a prayer, and they were the altar upon which the sacrament lay, and they were the priest blessing it as well, and they were even the god to which they worshipped. And below all that, they were two men fucking.

 

Jon's breath huffed out in little hiccuping pants, in time with the thrusts that slammed him into the desk, driving hot and hard against his wet velvet insides, stuttering over his prostate every so often with more enthusiasm than talent. His cock slid over the cool wood of his desk, an unexpectedly tantalizing sensation. One of Martin’s hands held tight to his hips and the other fluttered up over his neck, his shoulder, his hair.

 

Finally, finally, it was enough. He was flying up that cliff and feeling the air heat, the pressure build. Small tingles and sparks ran down his limbs, making him feel both weightless and heavy. The edge was close.

 

He left Lonely far behind, tangled hard in the roots that bind, and suddenly hit that cliff.

 

Something within him opened, blinked, and closed again.

 

His climax wracked through him like a storm and he was hoarsely growling Martin’s name through bared teeth as he rode it, gyrating back into him hard, one hand on his hip keeping him deep and grinding inside him as he dragged the pleasure on. The ecstasy pulsed, white hot inside and out, and ratcheted up again for a moment when he felt Martin spill hot and wet within him, crying out.

 

His orgasm faded slowly, so slowly, leaving him tingling like he was drunk. Martin slid out of him and he let himself drop to the floor, tugging him down too.

 

They sat half under his desk, wearing nothing but sweat and pleasure, and held each other. Jon was no longer gripping him bruisingly hard. The empty had been exorcised. He held him lightly, no longer fleeing the entity of Solitude, finished feeding the entity of Witnessing. Simply staving off the very mundane low level touch starvation he was prone to feeling. Martin burrowed his nose in his shoulder, tucking his head under his chin, and sniggered.

 

Jon usually felt molasses-slow and syrupy after coming, but now he felt wakeful and bright. Perhaps because he'd fed that which fed him. Or perhaps it was the earthshattering orgasm that had been more potent than any he could remember.

 

“Are you really laughing?” he said, a bit sharply. 

 

“Yes, but not- not like… I'm always a little giddy after sex. Sorry. I was just- I was thinking about that Leitner.”

 

“What?! We just- we just had-  _ desk sex- _ and you're thinking about the monster books?!” Jon cried, indignant. 

 

“No! Well, I mean- I just… I was just thinking, I bet whoever turned that book in either had a wild libido normally and didn't notice the effects, or were too shy to put a note explaining what happened.” He let out a little squeaking laugh again. “Christ, are you going to put a note with it explaining it?”

 

“Absolutely not,” Jon said flatly, then let out a short laugh. “I'm not even sure it was Isolation that made that all happen. I think- the Isolation was trying to take me, but Beholding was influencing me to combat it via… this. I mean- influencing as in making me… like that. I still have no regrets about it, I assure you,” he added quickly. “Never considered being bent over a desk something my job would lead to. So much for professionalism.”

 

Martin squeezed him a little tighter, and Jon felt he didn't mind at all. “Have you- er…. Have you ever done that before?”

 

“What, had sex in my office with my assistant barely off work hours? No.”

 

“I hope it was okay. I've never bent someone over a desk,” Martin said in a shy hushed giggle. “I have been on the receiving end, though.”

 

“What, really?” Jon said, a little shocked and impressed. He felt more than saw Martin grin against his neck.

 

“Birthday gift once from a boyfriend in college. I never told him about it, but I guess I was a little obvious.”

 

“That is absolutely filthy, Martin,” Jon tried to deadpan, but couldn't help but smile, still loose limbed and buzzing from their own filthy experience.

 

“Absolutely. Nothing I'd ever consider again,” Martin shot back.

 

“... really?”

 

“... no. It's amazing.”

 

“It absolutely is. Unprofessional, risky, unhygienic, messy… and  _ really good. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> That was an unexpected 15 pages of writing, as opposed to the short drabble I'd intended to. Whoops. Prompt me more! And feedback is v appreciated, if I slipped out of character or did something noncontinuous with the series, let me know!


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